


A Small Quiet Place in My Heart

by adelaide_rain



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Background Adam/Warlock, Bubble Bath, Dancing, Fluff, Genderfluid Crowley, Marriage Proposal, Other, Wedding Rings, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 23:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19896214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adelaide_rain/pseuds/adelaide_rain
Summary: Crowley pulls Warlock’s wedding invitation out of the envelope. Aziraphale watches his reaction go from a soft smile to dropping the invitation like it’s burned him and shoving his chair back from the table. He looks up at Aziraphale.“Adam Young?”“Mmm.”“ThatAdam Young?”“Well, I don’t know, but all things considered, I’d say it’s probable.”“You think it’sprobablethat the kid we thought was the antichrist just so happens to be marrying the actual antichrist?”“I think it’s ineffable.”Crowley snorts, and rubs at his eyes. “‘Course it is.”





	A Small Quiet Place in My Heart

There are three envelopes on the doormat when Aziraphale goes to collect the post. One is an advert for vitamin tablets, another is a bill, and they both go straight in the bin. 

The third looks more interesting. The envelope is creamy and satiny, and it is addressed to names that Aziraphale hasn’t thought about in quite a while. He opens it as he heads towards the back room, and almost drops it when he sees what’s inside. He reads it. He reads it again, and puts it back in the envelope, swallowing.

 _Well then,_ he thinks. 

“Everything all right, angel?”

Aziraphale startles at the voice. It’s Crowley, of course, but Aziraphale had thought he was still asleep. Instead he’s here, sitting at the table in the back room with a mug of coffee in his hands, looking sleepy with adorably messy hair. It’s enough to take the edge off the shock and Aziraphale can’t help but smile at him. 

“Good morning, my dear,” he says, coming over to kiss the top of his head before handing him the envelope. “We’ve got an invitation to Warlock’s wedding.”

“Oh?” Crowley perks up and looks down at the envelope, runs a finger over _Ms Crowley and Brother Francis ℅ Mr A.Z. Fell_. “You gave him this address?”

“I put it as a return address on the Christmas cards.”

Crowley nods and pulls the invitation out of the envelope. Aziraphale watches his reaction go from a soft smile to dropping the invitation like it’s burned him and shoving his chair back from the table. He looks up at Aziraphale. 

“Adam Young?”

“Mmm.” 

_“That_ Adam Young?”

“Well, I don’t know, but all things considered, I’d say it’s probable.”

“You think it’s _probable_ that the kid we thought was the antichrist just so happens to be marrying the actual antichrist?”

“I think it’s ineffable.”

Crowley snorts, and rubs at his eyes. “‘Course it is.” He drinks some coffee then picks up the invitation again, reading the rest of it. “The wedding is in New York.”

“Apparently so.”

Crowley looks up at him and grins. “We could make a holiday of it. Go sightseeing. They have good food in New York, angel.”

“You don’t need to tempt me, you old serpent,” Aziraphale says, putting his hands on Crowley’s shoulders and digging his thumbs into the tense muscles just above the base of his wings, moving them in circles and making Crowley hum in pleasure. “Of course we’re going to the wedding.”

“Adam will recognise us.”

“Oh, almost certainly.”

“Should be fun.”

Aziraphale is less sure of that, but he squeezes Crowley’s shoulders and goes to open the shop, leaving him to get his phone out and start looking for flights. 

-

Neither of them have passports, but it’s the barest of efforts to miracle them into existence. As they’re waiting in the security queue at Heathrow, Aziraphale looks at Crowley’s. 

“Antonia?”

Crowley rolls her eyes at him. “What’s yours say?” She asks, and snatches his passport out of his hands. “Francis Fell? Really?”

“What else would I put?”

She sniffs as she hands the passport back. “You could’ve taken my name.” 

Aziraphale looks down at the gold ring on his left ring finger, which matches one on Crowley’s. It had been Crowley’s idea, part of Nanny and Brother Francis’s back story, and it hadn’t taken much prodding for Aziraphale to agree. Marriage is such a human thing, but he still feels a thrill every time he sees the ring on Crowley’s finger, gleaming like a promise. Aziraphale had been the one who insisted on getting real rings rather than wishing them into existence, and Crowley had agreed immediately. Neither of them have talked about it but both of them have developed a tendency over the past few weeks of playing with the rings and smiling, which says a great deal more than either of them would ever put into words. 

After the longest half hour on God’s green Earth (and having been here from the Beginning, Aziraphale should know), they get through security. 

There’s a minor bit of bickering over whether or not Heathrow is Crowley’s fault (she insists it isn’t; Aziraphale remains certain that _someone_ demonic is responsible for this), and then they - like so many travellers before them - start their journey with a 7am bottle of wine. 

All things considered, it’s a good start to the holiday.

-

Aziraphale had borrowed Crowley’s phone back in London and bookmarked all the places he wanted to eat in New York. Over the first week they’re there, they make pretty good headway through the list, from cronuts to omakase to knishes. They also drink in almost every bar in a six-block radius from their hotel. 

Crowley refuses to use the subway for the same reasons she refuses to use the tube - something Aziraphale though was just Crowley being fussy before he saw Hell with his own eyes. Now he doesn’t even suggest it, and they walk most places, else get a cab. 

They see all the sights, with Crowley getting selfies of the two of them at every spot. There’s one at the top of the Empire State, on the Brooklyn Bridge, at various spots around Central Park and Times Square. Crowley takes a photo of Aziraphale at the New York Public Library and one of him at the Strand; in both of them he’s looking at the shelves with a level of awe and reverence that’s probably unbefitting of an angel. Crowley saves them, smiling, and says they’re her favourites.

Aziraphale’s own favourite photos are two he took himself on Crowley’s phone: one of her leaning against the railing on the ferry over to Liberty Island, smiling and relaxed with her hair blowing in the breeze; the other is in their hotel bathroom, Crowley doing her hair in the mirror wearing only lacy black underwear and glancing over her shoulder at him with yellow eyes on show. That last one is both beautiful and achingly vulnerable, and it makes Aziraphale feel like his chest is in a vice. 

It’s far from the first time that they’ve spent time together outside of London, but there’s something different about this. Maybe because of the reason they’re here. Maybe because of the softness Aziraphale feels every time the sunlight glints off Crowley’s ring. 

Aziraphale doesn’t know, but he’s very glad to be here with her.

-

In the rain, New York is somehow even more miserable than London, and Crowley is very glad when they get back to the hotel. She’s soaked to the bone, and drying herself off with a snap of her fingers isn’t satisfying enough. 

She runs a bath filled with bubbles and pulls Aziraphale in with her. Lying against him, she tips her head back to rest on his shoulder as he traces patterns on her knee and listens to him recite poetry. She watches the way the light catches on his wedding ring and smiles. 

When they get out they pull on the complimentary bathrobes - one of which was not black when they arrived but is when Crowley pulls it over her shoulders - and go back into the bedroom. The rain is still hammering against the window and it looks entirely miserable outside. Despite it being early afternoon, the clouds are so thick and grey that it’s almost as dark as night.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, looking at it. “I’d thought we might go to the theatre tonight.”

“Absolutely not,” Crowley says, finishing drying her hair and throwing the towel into the bathroom. Her hair is instantly dry and soft, as it should be. “I’m not going outside again while the weather is like this.”

“Then,” Aziraphale says, with an exaggerated look of confusion, “However shall we while away the time, in this room with this very large bed?”

Crowley laughs, shaking her head - Aziraphale really is delightful sometimes. She pushes him onto the bed before dropping her bathrobe to the floor and climbing on top of him. He’s deliciously warm beneath her, and she is warm herself after the bath. Aziraphale smiles and reaches up to stroke his fingers through her hair then down her spine, resting at the small of her back where there’s a patch of black scales. He strokes his thumb over them very lightly, and Crowley’s eyes flutter closed; Aziraphale paying attention to her and nothing else has always been her favourite thing in the entire world.

“You always have the best ideas,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley smirks down at him. It was his idea, but she’s always happy to take credit for good ideas that aren’t hers.

“Damn right I do,” she says, and kisses him as she plucks open the belt of his bathrobe.

-

Later, without leaving the warmth and comfort of the bed and each other’s arms, they discuss what they’re going to wear for the wedding tomorrow. Crowley realises that she might have left it a bit late and should really have known better than to trust in Aziraphale’s sartorial choices. 

“Only a bride can wear white at a wedding,” she tuts, then grins. “And you couldn’t wear white then, either. Not exactly virginal, are you?”

Aziraphale glares at her. His cheeks go pink, which seems a little ridiculous considering they’ve just spent the entire afternoon and a large proportion of the evening partaking of distinctly non-virginal activities. “What about you, then? You can’t wear all black to a wedding, either. It’s not a funeral, Crowley.”

“Alright then, what _should_ I wear?”

Crowley comes dangerously close to letting Aziraphale choose a new wedding outfit for her, but catches herself before she ends up dressed like a Jane Austen heroine. They bat suggestions back and forth and at Aziraphale’s insistence buy actual outfits instead of miracling them into existence. Since this is New York they’re able to get them delivered to the hotel before midnight. 

When they try them on Aziraphale uses a tiny miracle to make sure they fit properly, and they stand side by side in the mirror admiring their new clothes. 

Crowley’s outfit is very Audrey Hepburn - _she_ wore all black all the time, she grumbles, but Aziraphale does not relent - with black crop trousers and a slash-neck top the colour of good red wine. A snakish silver necklace sets the whole thing off nicely.

Aziraphale relented to wearing a brown suit, with a tartan waistcoat. It’s unbearably fussy still and incredibly uncool, but Crowley - someone help her - adores it anyway. At least she’s convinced him to go looking like himself rather than donning the exaggerated features of Brother Francis.

“I think we look very good together,” Aziraphale says, taking her hand and beaming at her.

“We do,” Crowley says, and her reflection smiles like someone hopelessly in love.

-

The wedding venue is just south of Central Park. Not in a church, thankfully, but a rooftop garden in a building off Rockefeller Plaza. Crowley isn’t sure if the cloudless skies are Adam’s doing, though she suspects they might be. 

They get the lift up to the right floor, and as they step into the garden Warlock comes to greet them, pulling them both into a tight hug and exclaiming over how good Brother Francis looks. 

“Ahem,” Crowley says, and Warlock grins at her. 

“You look great too, Nanny- Uh, I mean- Should I call you Ms. Crowley?”

“Call me Toni,” she says, and Aziraphale looks at her, aghast, mouthing _Toni!?_ over Warlock’s shoulder. 

“You look great, Toni, seriously - you’ve hardly aged a day. It’s just, back when I was a kid, Brother Francis was-“ He waves a hand vaguely. “I mean, uh-“ He seems to realise he’s digging himself a very deep hole, and swallows. 

“This is the result of clean living, young Warlock,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley tries not to sigh at the accent.

“You look great together, you always did. You two taught me so much about love, and-” Warlock laughs, ducking his head. “God, I’m being sappy.”

“If you can’t be sappy on your wedding day, when can you be?” Crowley says, linking her arm with Aziraphale’s.

“True,” Warlock says. “I better go, but I just wanted to say thank you. For being here now, but - for being there when I was a kid, too. You made me who I am today.” 

He hugs them both again before hurrying inside to finish getting ready. They’re shown to their seats on the second row, and Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand in his own, resting it in his lap.

“Maybe we didn’t do such a bad thing, after all,” he says. “Looking after Warlock, I mean.”

“I’ve told you before about calling me nice, angel.”

“I didn’t. You _weren’t_ , that was the whole point. But… you loved him, didn’t you?”

Crowley glares at him. “So did you.” As comebacks go, it’s a pretty terrible one. 

“Obviously, yes.” He pauses, then kisses just below her temple, exactly where her snake marking is, and Crowley feels heat rise in her cheeks. “And you were nice sometimes. More than you’d like to admit.”

“Oi,” she says, but she kisses him back. 

-

The ceremony is beautiful. Crowley definitely doesn’t sniffle, and definitely doesn’t accept the handkerchief Aziraphale passes her. 

Afterwards there’s a lunch reception with too many people, and a quieter dinner. 

Crowley sticks close by Aziraphale for most of it, in large part because she doesn’t want to talk to Adam. It’s a weird situation, being at the wedding of someone who’s basically your ex-boss’s estranged son. She’s fairly sure Adam knows exactly who they are, not least because Aziraphale looks exactly like he did on the day of the apocalypse-that-wasn’t. 

She tries to avoid him, but makes the mistake of leaving Aziraphale’s side to grab a glass of wine. 

When she turns Adam’s right behind and she jumps back, startled, and almost spills her wine. 

“Been a while,” Adam says. 

“Ngk,” Crowley says, downing her glass of wine before picking up another with a hand that shakes slightly.

Adam picks one up himself. He’s handsome in his tuxedo, and looks young for thirty-three, though Crowley suspects he’ll always be a bit ageless. 

“When Warlock told me about his nanny and the gardener, I did wonder if it was you two. And then when he showed me pictures… You thought he was me, didn’t you?”

“It’s not _my_ fault there was another baby,” she says automatically.

“Things worked out for the best, I think.”

“Considering we’re all still standing here, yeah, I suppose so.”

Adam looks at her for a moment, as if wondering whether to ask something. “Did they ever - do anything to you? I mean, afterwards. For helping me stop all of it.”

Crowley thinks of Heaven, thinks of Gabriel threatening Aziraphale, thinks of hellfire and holy water and tries to swallow down the fear and rage that rise in her. “They tried.”

“Tried?”

“We - outwitted them. Sort of. They’ve left us alone since then.”

“Oh. Good. No-one tried to do anything to me. For the best, really,” Adam says, and a flicker of red in the depths of his eyes makes Crowley’s fear leap higher. 

She takes a shaky breath and is seriously considering finding somewhere to hide when she feels something brush up against her wing. Looking up, she sees white feathers against her black ones. Aziraphale is talking to Warlock, but he’s always been good at noticing when Crowley needs calming. That slight touch, invisible to everyone else in the room, is just what she needs to pull her down from the panicked heights she’d been scaling. 

Invisible to almost everyone else in the room, anyway, Crowley thinks, noticing that Adam is looking at the point where their wings overlap. 

“I did wonder,” he says. “Back then, if you were together.”

“We were.”

“Is it - allowed?”

“Allowed?” Crowley gives a strangled laugh. “Is an angel allowed to be in love with a demon? No, I don’t think so. But in comparison to going against the will of Heaven and Hell to stop Armageddon, I think it might be small change. I try not to think about it, to be honest.” She looks at Adam and folds her arms. “Any other horrible things you want to talk about?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean- It’s just, well, I _am_ the antichrist. That’s worse than some two-bit demon-”

“I’m at least a six-bit demon, thanks.”

Adam flashes her a grin. “Noted. But I wondered, when me and Warlock got together, if… If it was okay. For the antichrist to be with a human.”

“You are human, though.”

Adam flashes a mischievous grin. “Mostly.”

“I don’t want to know,” Crowley says quickly. If he doesn’t tell her, she can claim ignorance. “Look. What with ineffability and all, who knows, but Aziraphale says that love is never wrong, so I think it’s okay. And some things are worth the risk,” she adds, stretching out her wing slightly to touch Aziraphale’s again. She sees him glance at her and his smile is, as always, an arrow to her heart. 

“If an angel says it’s okay, I reckon it must be,” Adam says, looking relieved.

“I mean, this is Aziraphale we’re talking about, so take it with a pinch of salt.”

“You should be nicer to your husband,” Adam says. _Your husband_ makes Crowley grin - instant, bright, and far more honest than she’d like it to be. She clears her throat and scowls. 

“I‘m plenty nice, as people insist on telling me.”

Adam snorts, but doesn’t comment. 

They stand for a moment, watching the wedding guests. 

“Worth the risk,” Adam says quietly, half to himself, then looks at Crowley. “You’re right. It’s worth the risk, to have this.”

Crowley feels Aziraphale’s wing still against her own, feels the ring on her finger and the lightness in her heart. She knows the wrath of Heaven and Hell better than she hopes Adam ever will, but she also knows this is true: “To be with him - yeah. It’s worth anything.”

-

Crowley and Aziraphale, sitting at an otherwise empty table, watch as Adam and Warlock have their first dance as husbands. 

The newlyweds hold themselves more at ease than they did an hour ago, laughing as they dance. Adam, a few inches taller, spins Warlock, who dips him in return. 

They’re clearly in love; Aziraphale would know that even if he couldn’t feel it, but he can, sparkling and spilling over like an overfull glass of champagne. He feels it from his side, too, where Crowley sits with an ankle crossed over her knee and her arm over the back of Aziraphale’s chair, hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

He looks at her and opens his senses to really _feel_ how much Crowley loves him, as deep and wide as the ocean. Aziraphale loves Crowley just as deeply, just as fondly, just as endlessly. 

It’s natural, he thinks, what with seeing Adam again, to think about this future that they shouldn’t have. Natural, too, to consider what will happen whenever Above and Below decide to start paying attention to them again. But Aziraphale finds that though he’s afraid, he has no doubts and no regrets, save that he wishes he’d told Crowley the moment he realised he was in love. It feels like he wasted so much time, but whatever is ahead of them, whatever comes next, they will face it side-by-side.

Thinking about saying any of that makes him feel like he has a rock lodged in his throat, so instead he says, “Just so you know, I am _not_ calling you Toni.”

Crowley laughs, loud and bright and delighted. Aziraphale thought he was already as deeply in love as it was possible to get, but he feels himself falling a little more as she turns a dazzling smile on him. 

“No? Then what are you going to call me? As far as anyone here knows, we’re married. You can’t call me Crowley.”

Aziraphale makes a show of thinking about it. “How about: my dear. My darling. Sweetheart, perhaps.”

Crowley looks at him for a long moment and then leans in to kiss him, gentle but lingering. “I’ll accept them all, angel.” 

There’s a smattering of applause as the song ends and the first dance is over. Other people join Adam and Warlock on the dancefloor, pairing off and swaying vaguely in time to the music.

“We should dance,” Crowley says. Aziraphale frowns.

“I’ve seen your dancing. No, thank you.”

“Says _you._ Anyway, I don’t mean proper dancing. Just-” She gestures at the humans. “Like that.”

Aziraphale considers, then stands, putting one hand behind his back and bowing as he offers the other to Crowley. “May I have this dance, my dear?”

“You may,” she says, letting Aziraphale pull her to her feet. 

Taking note from the humans around them, they put one hand on the other’s waist and clasp the others together. 

“This is the first time we’ve danced together,” Crowley says as they start to sway. “First time in six thousand years.”

“Not the last, though.”

She smiles, and kisses him. “Not the last, no.”

-

Back in London, Crowley is lounging on a sofa in Aziraphale’s shop. There’s been a fair few customers today, and Aziraphale has been giving him a number of pointed looks that he’s fairly sure mean _take your snake form and scare them off_ but if he won’t use his words then how’s Crowley supposed to know? 

Eventually the shop is empty and Aziraphale locks up before coming over to him, pouting and folding his arms. 

“Next time we’re overrun like that, earn your keep and scare them away,” he says, and Crowley takes off his sunglasses specifically to widen his eyes innocently at him. 

“Oh, is _that_ what those looks you kept giving me meant?”

“You’re terrible,” Aziraphale says, tutting at him, but plants a kiss on his forehead, so he figures he’s forgiven. “What do you say to Nobu tonight, my dear?”

Crowley says yes, and they spend a few hours there sampling sushi and sake before strolling back to the bookshop, arm-in-arm. When they’re home, Crowley feels pleasantly tipsy and while Aziraphale goes to find the bottle of sake he bought in Japan half a century ago, Crowley puts a record on. 

As Debussy plays, he looks at the gold band that still sits around his ring finger. It’s been two months since they got back to London, but neither of them have taken off the rings. They’ve not talked about it either, and as much as Crowley isn’t the biggest fan of talking about his feelings, he’s starting to wonder if he should.

Aziraphale returns, having taken his jacket off, with two cups of sake. 

Crowley accepts one of them and sips at it before taking Aziraphale’s left hand and kissing the ring around his finger. 

There’s so much he could say. _I love you_ or _I don’t regret anything_ or perhaps even _Marry me?_ He’s said the first quite often now, but the others… Well. It took him six thousand years to work his way up to _I love you_ , he supposes they can wait a bit longer for the others.

Instead he glances up over the rim of his sunglasses, and says, “Dance with me?”

Aziraphale smiles, and nods, and takes Crowley in his arms. 

“It was nice, wasn’t it,” Aziraphale says as they sway together. “The wedding, I mean.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“I liked those little rainbow bagels they had at the reception. We could have them at our own wedding.” Crowley blinks. Aziraphale continues, a little breathlessly. “If you’ll marry me, that is.”

Crowley thinks about _you go too fast for me, Crowley,_ and smiles. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yes, angel. I’ll marry you.”

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale says, relieved, and kisses him. 

“It is,” Crowley says. Whatever comes next, whatever the future holds, all anyone really ever has is right now, and right now he has his angel - his fiancé - in his arms. So this moment? “It’s really good.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this (very NSFW!) [Nanny/Brother Francis fic ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19806709) the other day and nearly every single comment was about the tiny Adam/Warlock wedding snippet at the end. So here we are.
> 
> The title is from [this poem.](https://asighlikewhisper.tumblr.com/post/185517457758/afadthatlastsforever-there-is-a-corner-of-my)
> 
> And you can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/adelaide_rain) and sometimes on [tumblr.](http://raininginadelaide.tumblr.com/)


End file.
